A Woman Is No Man

by Etaf Rum

  “No, I won’t. I promise. What is it?”

  “I’m worried about the baby,” Isra whispered. “What if it’s another girl? What will your family do? What will Adam do?”

  “They can’t do anything,” Sarah said. “Having a girl isn’t in your control.” She moved closer and touched Isra’s shoulder. “And you never know, you might be carrying a boy this time.”

  Isra sighed. “Even if I have a boy, I don’t know how I’ll raise four children. Where will I find the time? What if I can’t read anymore?”

  “You can always find time to read,” Sarah said. “Soon Deya will be in school, and it won’t be so bad. And I’ll be here to help you.”

  “You don’t understand.” Isra sighed again, pressing her fingers against her temples. “I know it sounds selfish, but I was finally starting to feel like a person, like I had a purpose, like there was something else in my life besides raising children all day and waiting for Adam to come home.” She stopped, startled by her words. “Not that I don’t like being a mother. I love my children, of course I do. But for so long I haven’t had anything to call my own. All I have is a husband who barely comes home and beats me when he does, and children who depend on me for everything. And the worst part is, I have nothing to give them! I never thought it would be like this.” The feeling she had now, that this was all her life would ever be, caught her by surprise. She began to cry.

  “Please don’t cry,” Sarah said, wrapping her arms around Isra and squeezing tight. “You’re a good mother. You’re doing your best for your daughters, and they’re going to see that one day. I know this is hard, but you’re not alone. I’m right here. You have me. I promise.”

  “I have something to cheer you up,” Sarah told her when they retreated to the basement after dinner. She spread a pile of books across the floor. “There are so many good books in here. I don’t even know where to start. There’s Anna Karenina, Lolita, The Stranger . . . Oh, and Kafka, I think you’d love his—”

  “No,” Isra interrupted.

  Sarah met her eyes. “No?”

  “What I mean is . . .” She paused. “I want to read something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “I want to read something written by a woman.”

  “Sure. We’ve already read lots of books written by women,” Sarah said. “Do you have a specific author in mind?”

  “Not really.”

  “A specific book, then?”

  Isra shook her head. “I was hoping you’d help. I want to read a book about someone like me.”

  Sarah blinked at her. “Like you how?”

  “I don’t know. But I want to read a book about what it really means to be a woman.”

  Fareeda

  Summer 1995

  Ever since Sarah turned sixteen, Fareeda had taken to parading her up and down Fifth Avenue as though she were a shank of lamb for sale. Her usual fears of leaving the house alone now paled in comparison to her fear of Sarah not finding a suitor. Earlier that day, after the mansaf stew simmered, they had gone to the pharmacy on Seventy-Fifth Street to pick up Fareeda’s diabetes medicine. Khaled normally picked up her medicine, but Fareeda wanted people to see Sarah. She had realized one evening, after hearing the engagement news of Umm Ramy’s daughter, Nadia, that perhaps she had been doing something wrong. Nadia, for goodness sake, who was always roaming Fifth Avenue alone, whose parents let her ride the subway to school. It didn’t make sense! But maybe it was because no one ever saw Sarah, who took the bus to school and never left the house alone. Perhaps people didn’t even know what Sarah looked like. So Fareeda began taking her places nearby, despite her fears of going out alone. The Alsalam meat market at Seventy-Second Street, the Bay Ridge Bakery at Seventy-Eighth, sometimes even all the way down Fifth Avenue. But most days they visited their neighbors. Sarah still needed to learn some culture, and there was no better place to learn culture, Fareeda knew, than in the company of women.

  Now she squatted in front of the oven and pulled out a pan of baked knafa. The smell of rose syrup filled the house, and she remembered her father bringing her slices as a child, before they were forced into the camps. She had always loved the red-colored dough, the sweet and savory cheese melted inside. She took a deep breath, warmed by memory.

  “Brew a kettle of chai,” Fareeda told Sarah when she entered the kitchen. “Umm Ahmed will be here any minute.”

  Sarah groaned. The summer sun had darkened her olive complexion, and her black curls held a tint of red in them. Fareeda thought she looked beautiful, a spitting image of what she herself had once looked like. But Fareeda herself was withering away now, as much as she hated to admit it. Her hair, which had once been full and bouncy, lay flat behind her ears after years of dyeing it. All that henna had done her scalp no good, but she couldn’t bear the sight of gray hair. It reminded her of how fast life slipped by.

  “Where’s Isra?” Sarah asked.

  “Downstairs,” said Fareeda. She knew Sarah and Isra had grown close lately, and she wasn’t sure how she felt about it. It had been her idea, after all, to teach Sarah some compliance, but more than once Fareeda had found them huddled at the kitchen table, whispering to each other, sometimes even reading together—reading, of all things! She had to listen with half an ear as she watched her evening show to make sure they weren’t up to no good. Once she had overheard Sarah translating a novel about a man attracted to his twelve-year-old stepdaughter, pausing to explain that she had borrowed the book from a friend because the school library had banned it. Fareeda had snatched the book from her at once! The last thing she needed was for either of them to read that sort of Americanized smut. Who knew what ideas it was giving them? But otherwise, their friendship seemed harmless enough. She just needed to make sure Isra rubbed off on Sarah and not the other way around. She smiled to herself—as if anyone could shake some backbone into Isra. No, she didn’t have to worry too much about that.

  Fareeda sliced the knafa into small rectangles and sprinkled them with crushed pistachios. She glanced at Sarah. “What are you wearing?”

  “Clothes.”

  Fareeda moved closer. “Are you smartmouthing me?”

  “It’s jeans and a T-shirt, Mama. What’s the big deal?”

  “Go upstairs and change,” Fareeda said. “Put your cream-colored dress on. It flatters your skin. Hurry.” As Sarah turned to leave, she couldn’t help but add, “And fix your hair, too.”

  “But it’s just Umm Ahmed. She’s seen me a thousand times.”

  “Well, you’re older now, and Umm Ahmed is looking for a wife for her son. It doesn’t hurt to take some care with your appearance.”

  “I’m only sixteen, Mama.”

  Fareeda sighed. “I’m not saying you need to get married right this second. There’s nothing wrong with a one- or two-year engagement.”

  “But Hannah is my age.” Sarah’s voice was louder now. “And I don’t see Umm Ahmed trying to get her engaged.”

  Fareeda laughed, reaching for a serving tray from the cabinet. “What do you know about Umm Ahmed? As a matter of fact, Hannah accepted a marriage proposal last night.”

  “But—”

  “Go change and let me worry about these things.”

  Fareeda could hear Sarah mutter under her breath as she left the room. Something about being advertised. Or showcased. Poor girl, Fareeda thought, if she was just now realizing this. That this was a woman’s worth. Sometimes she wished she could sit her daughter down, explain life to her—God knew she had tried. But there were some things you couldn’t explain. Words could do extraordinary things, but sometimes they were not enough.

  Deya

  Winter 2008

  By Sunday, Fareeda had arranged another meeting with Nasser. It was a cold winter day, and Deya circled the sala with a serving tray. She served Nasser’s mother Turkish coffee and roasted watermelon seeds, while Fareeda chatted on, her gold tooth flashing between her lips. Deya wanted to fling the serving tray across the room.
How could she trust her grandmother, after all she had learned from Sarah? How could she pretend nothing was wrong? She couldn’t. She needed to stop stalling, needed to speak up for herself before it was too late.

  “My grandmother thinks I should marry you,” she said as she settled across from Nasser at the kitchen table. “She says I’d be a fool to turn down your proposal. But I can’t marry you. I’m sorry.”

  Nasser straightened. “Why not?”

  She had the sudden urge to take her words back, but she made herself go on. She could her Sarah’s voice in her ear: Be brave. Speak up for what you want. She turned to meet Nasser’s eyes. “What I mean is, I’m not ready to get married. I want to go to college first.”

  “Oh,” Nasser said. “Well, you can do both. Many girls go to college after marriage.”

  “Are you saying you would let me go to college?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  She blinked at him. “What about after college? Would you let me work?”

  Nasser stared at her. “Why would you need to work? You’ll be well provided for.”

  “But what if I want to work with my degree?”

  “If both of us were working, then who would raise the children?”

  “See? That’s my point.”

  “What point?”

  “Why do I have to stay at home and raise the children? Why do I have to give up my dreams?”

  “Because one of us has to do it,” Nasser said, seeming confused. “And of course that should be the mother. It’s only natural.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “What? It’s true. I’m not trying to offend you, but everyone knows it’s a woman’s job to raise children.”

  Deya pushed herself up from the table. “See? That’s exactly what I mean. You’re just like the rest of them.”

  Nasser stared at her, his face contorted with shock and anger—and something else. Deya wasn’t sure what it was. “I’m not trying to upset you,” he said. “I’m only telling the truth.”

  “What’s next? You’re going to beat me and say that’s natural, too?”

  “What are you talking about?” Nasser said. “I would never put my hands on a woman. Maybe that’s how it used to be, but I know better.”

  Deya observed him. He sat up straight, breathing heavily, a spot on his forehead flushed pink. She cleared her throat. “What about your father?”

  “What about him?”

  “Does he beat your mother?”

  “What kind of question is that?”

  “He does, doesn’t he?”

  “Of course not!” Nasser said. “My father would never beat my mother. He treats her like a queen.”

  “Sure he does.”

  “You’re being really rude, you know that? I know you’ve been through a lot, but that doesn’t give you the right to talk to people like that.”

  “What do you know about what I’ve been through?”

  “Are you kidding me, Deya? Everyone knows everything in this town. But just because your father beat your mother, that doesn’t mean every man beats his wife.” Deya stared at him, and he scoffed. “I mean, for God’s sake, it’s not like he didn’t have a reason!”

  It was as though he’d smashed a brick into her face. “What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing.” Nasser stood. “It was nothing. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry.” He walked toward the doorway without meeting her eyes. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

  “Wait,” Deya said, following him across the kitchen. “Don’t go. Tell me what you meant.”

  But Nasser rushed down the hall and out the door in a blink, his startled mother following suit, before Deya could say another word.

  Fareeda

  Fall 1995

  Fareeda had suspected all along that Umm Ahmed would not be interested in Sarah for her son. It was because Umm Ahmed didn’t share Fareeda’s view of the world. She thought Fareeda wasn’t religious enough, that she shamed girls too much. But at least Fareeda understood the way the world worked, unlike Umm Ahmed, whose daughter Fatima had gotten divorced. She was sure Hannah would get divorced, too. That’s what happens, Fareeda thought, when you live life as though you’re in a TV commercial, everyone running around laughing, falling in and out of love.

  “The phone never rings when you wait for it,” Fareeda said now, chomping on a stick of gum and staring at Nadine, who had joined her in the sala. It was the beginning of the school year, and Isra was waiting for Deya at the bus stop. It was her first day of preschool.

  “Who are you expecting to call?” Nadine asked, smoothing her hair.

  “Just a potential marriage suitor.”

  “Oh.”

  Fareeda knew what she must be thinking. Somehow the summer had passed, and not one suitor had asked for Sarah’s hand in marriage. Perhaps the other Arab mothers thought Sarah wasn’t good enough, Arab enough. Perhaps, like her, they preferred a girl from back home. All of this was possible, but deep down Fareeda couldn’t help but fear it was the jinn, still haunting their family after all those years, as if Isra’s girls were a payback for what she had done.

  Nadine cleared her throat and Fareeda straightened. She hoped the girl couldn’t sense her fear.

  “You’ll miss her, you know,” Nadine said, looking at her with her stupid blue eyes. “She’ll be married soon, and you’ll miss her.”

  “Miss her?” Fareeda tucked her yellow nightgown over her knees. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “I just mean you shouldn’t worry about marrying her off so quickly. You should enjoy the time you have left.”

  Fareeda didn’t like the look on Nadine’s face. There was a time when she had enjoyed Nadine’s company, a break from Isra’s dullness and Sarah’s rebellions. But now it was Nadine who irritated her the most, with her constant sense of entitlement. The girl did whatever she pleased, regardless of what Fareeda asked of her. As annoying as Isra was, at least she did what she was told. At least she knew her place. But one damn child, and Nadine walked around as though the world owed her something. As though she wasn’t a woman like the rest of them. You have to earn the right to bend the rules, Fareeda thought, and Nadine hadn’t earned a thing.

  “But I guess you’re lucky,” Nadine said. “She’ll get married right here, and you’ll see her all the time.”

  “See her all the time? Do you think you’d see your mother all the time if you were living back home?”

  “Of course.”

  Fareeda laughed, her eyes squinting into tiny slits. “When a girl gets married, she puts a big X on her parents’ door.” Fareeda drew the letter with her index finger as large as she could in front of her. “A very big X.” Nadine stared at her, fingering the tips of her hair. “No man wants a wife still stuck up her family’s back end when she should be home cooking and cleaning.” Fareeda spit out her gum, squashed it into a tissue. “Believe me, I’ll kick Sarah right back into her husband’s lap if she starts coming around here after she’s married.”

  Deya

  Winter 2008

  What are you hiding from me?” Deya asked Sarah the next day, as soon as she walked into the bookstore. There were customers, but Deya didn’t bother to keep her voice low. “Nasser—Nasser, of all people—said there was a reason Baba beat Mama. What was he talking about?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Stop! I thought we said we wouldn’t lie to each other.” Deya lowered her voice, trying not to cry. “Please. Just tell me the truth already. What happened to my parents?”

  Sarah took a step back. She rubbed both hands over her face. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered. She walked to her desk, opened the bottom drawer, and reached inside. When she returned, she was holding a piece of paper. She handed it to Deya.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said again. “When I left the note for you, I had no idea you didn’t know. And then when I found out, I was afraid to tell you. I thought if I told you too soon, you’d run away and I’
d never see you again. I’m so sorry, Deya.”

  Deya said nothing, inspecting the paper in her hand. It was a newspaper clipping. She brought it close to her face until she could make out the ant-size print, and then, all at once, the room went dark. Her tears came in a rush. What a terrible daughter she must have been to not have known it all along.

  “Please,” Sarah said, reaching out to hold her. “Let me explain.”

  But Deya took one step back, and then another, and the next she knew she was running.

  Fareeda

  1970

  One of the memories that came unbidden when Fareeda was alone: she was at a gathering while she and Khaled still lived in the camps, a few years before they moved to America. The women sat on the veranda of Fareeda’s cement shelter, sipping on mint chai and eating from a fresh platter of za’atar rolls Fareeda had baked over the soba oven. Their kids were riding bikes on the unpaved road. A soccer ball flew from one end of the street to the other. They were surrounded by noise, laughter.

  “Did you hear about Ramsy’s wife?” Hala, Fareeda’s next-door neighbor, asked between mouthfuls of bread. “The girl who lives on the other side of the camp? What’s her name? Suhayla, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Awatif, who lived eight doors down, in a shelter by the open sewers. “The one who went crazy after her newborn daughter died.”

  “But did you hear the rumor”—Hala leaned in, her voice a whisper—“about what really happened to her daughter? They’re saying she drowned her in the bathtub. Ramsy and his family tried to pass it off as an accident, said she’s still a young bride and didn’t know how to bathe the girl properly. But I heard she did it on purpose. She didn’t want a daughter.”

  Fareeda felt nauseous, her tongue dry. She swallowed, then took another sip of her chai.

  “I mean, it makes sense,” Hala went on. “The girl was raped as a child, then married off at once. Poor girl was barely thirteen. And we all know Ramsy. A drunk. Day and night with sharaab in his hands. He probably beats the poor girl every night. You can imagine the rest. She likely thought she was saving her daughter. It’s sad, really.”